Lost Fanfiction. Oneshot.
Title: Reflection
Author: ParisAmy
Characters/Pairings: Sawyer, Juliet
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I own nothing to do with Lost.
Warnings: AU
Notes: My first ever post, i hope i've followed all of the rules correctly, please let me know if i haven't. Thanks for reading, let me know what you think. I hope you enjoy :)
Summery: Sometimes he can see them in the mirror, and sometimes they slip from view, and when they do there’s only a country song playing in a vacant bedroom, lit by moonlight.
Reflection
Somebody once told him love was passion and obsession and someone you can’t live without.
That was love. He was in love. He was.
He fell head over heels. He loved her like crazy and he’d run the risk and got hurt, but he came back; back to her and now and always and forever.
So he doesn’t believe her when she tells him they’re both dead. Like it’s nothing, like she’s known forever, that they are no longer living.
They’re alive. They are, they are, they are.
They’re standing in their house, their bedroom that has been theirs for so long now. The curtains are partly closed, the moonlight slowly filtering in from outside, reflecting shadows of strong, vibrant, upstanding, luminous yellow flowers.
“Look at us.” She says, and he does. He turns towards the mirror hanging over the dressing table and he looks at a couple that were stranded on a desert island, which eventually became their home. He looks at Juliet, his passion and obsession and person he can’t live without, by his side, smiling; but her eyes are gimlet sharp, like she’s hoping he won’t just look but he’ll see.
He turns back and looks at her again, her eyebrows are raised as she tells him to- “Look again.”
He turns back towards the mirror, looks again and…and…he doesn’t see them standing there. He’s looking at the reflection of an empty, derelict bedroom. The flowers on the opposite side of the room are limp and wilted, dead; their once luminous yellows were now dull browns. The labored death he never saw coming. The curtains weren’t there either; the moonlight was trickling in through the badly boarded up windows. The pattered wallpaper is wet and pealing, the small hole in the roof probably the problem.
“Do you see?” She asks, and her voice is nothing but calmness and peace and acceptance.
He turns around to face her again, and he can hear the intake of breath that shudders and shakes its way through his body. The left side of her face is patched with dried blood. Her face is too grey and too pale like…like she’s….dead.
A part of him wants to turn around and see how he looks, but he can’t move, his body is frozen in place, and his eyes are focused, unblinkingly on Juliet’s face.
He doesn’t want to see her like this. He screws his eyes up tight and hopes and prays. He opens them again and she looks like he remembers; this dazzling, daring brilliance that is always shining into his life. His smile is immediate, and he keeps beaming at her, and it’s like his whole soul is a beacon of light.
Then his face falls. The light fades. They’re dead.
“Did you see?” She asks and he nods.
“…But, but we breath, we have a pulse.” He argues, though he knows it will be pointless, hopeless, because he saw.
“Do we?” She asks, and he doesn’t doubt that she knows they don’t have a pulse and that they don’t breath like…like living people. His hand creeps towards his heart and rests there for a few moments, and then his hand circles her wrist, hoping for that small pulsating beating. It doesn’t come. It isn’t there.
“How long have you known?”
“A while,”
“How long have we been dead?”
“I-I don’t know…I can’t remember.” She sounds scared and tense, and that makes him frightened. He wants to ask another question, a question that is stuck in the back of his throat, silently screaming to be voiced so much so that it’s burning through his veins. How did we die?
Juliet looks at him, and her eyes are cloudy but sharp.
He doesn’t ask.
He looks in the mirror. He see’s their reflections.
The sound of the alarm clock suddenly springing into life, blaring out some country song snaps him out of his thoughts.
He looks at her and grins. It isn’t really playing is it?
But he hears it anyway; he hears the whispery sound of a man singing a sad song and he sees the flowers glistening in the moonlight and he feels Juliet’s soft hand slipping into his; and surely it was the feel of living flesh.
He closes his eyes and they dance together in the decaying and dilapidated bedroom. Sometimes he can see them in the mirror, and sometimes they slip from view, and when they do there’s only a country song playing in a vacant bedroom, lit by moonlight.